


Hide and Seek

by colorflames



Series: Held Him Captive in a Kiss [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16919607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorflames/pseuds/colorflames
Summary: Seungcheol was good at hiding. Jeonghan was good at seeking. Seungcheol hid, but Jeonghan never sought him.





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Mention of physical harming.

Seungcheol did not remember the last time he had ventured out of his apartment. He had been surrounded by the confining four walls of his tiny living space for as long as he could remember. Nothing went out, and the only thing that went in was actually a person—the same delivery guy that brought his daily-ordered Chinese take-outs for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

He thought he would grow sick of it—living off of Chow Mein and broken college mix tapes and tears. But no, no, no. He felt mostly comfortable—dwelling in the empty, fading memories and suffocating desperation and peeling, dusty floorboards.

He was accustomed to hiding, after all.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s smile was always the widest whenever they wrapped up a round of hide and seek—their favorite game. The fact that he won the game was mainly the reason, and there were little number of occasions where he didn’t. There was always something at stake: the loser must buy kimchi fried rice for the winner, the loser must run twenty laps around the field, the winner has bragging rights for two straight weeks. It made everything more fun and exhilarating.

He was always the one who hid, and Jeonghan was always the one who sought. There were no “Which one do you want to be?” or “I’m more comfortable being this than that”. It just came out naturally, like an unspoken agreement neither were aware of. No one ever complained, no one ever protested.

The first game ever recorded was in a hot July afternoon, back when they were five, back when Seungcheol’s arms were too gangly for his body and Jeonghan had fresh, flashing red scars on his legs from slipping on his bike the previous day. It went for hours, with Seungcheol winning most of the rounds. They both returned home afterwards, Seungcheol triumphant and Jeonghan dejected.

The first stake ever recorded was in a nipping September morning, back when they were eight, back when Seungcheol had just joined their school’s soccer team and Jeonghan had just started being an elder brother to his newborn sister. They played the rounds with much gusto, free lemon candies (the loser would be the one who paid) embedded in mind. Predictably, Seungcheol won and Jeonghan lost.

When they left the candy store, Seungcheol had sixteen candies with him. When he reached home, he only had eight.

On their way back, he had shared half of them with Jeonghan.

That was the first time Jeonghan ever smiled when he lost a game.

And, in Seungcheol’s eyes, it was dazzling.

Since then, the stakes grew higher. The chances Seungcheol took to purposefully lose so that he could see Jeonghan’s wide, beautiful, victorious smile once again shot up as well.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol scanned his eyes over the e-mail he had just received. Another job offering, another big opportunity.

Another chance thrown away.

 _It’s weird_ , he thought to himself. _Graduating college was supposed to be liberating. Graduating college was supposed to be the official start of your new life. Graduating college was not supposed to feel this sad._

He drew a lungful of air.                                                                                                                         

He wasn’t sad because of graduating college.

He wasn’t even sure if he was sad, or beyond that.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol was twelve years old when he realized that he was in love with his best friend. It struck him abruptly, but he was not surprised. He was mostly relieved.

He knew Jeonghan knew about it. But Jeonghan never said a word. As if his affections, his mounting abundance of love was not something worth thinking about, something that was only fleeting, something that was easily discarded.

For years he was struck in frustration and hopelessness.

They all diminished in his—their—last year of high school.

“I love you.” He finally mustered up the courage, finally pulling the words from their hiding place somewhere inside him. “I have been in love with you for a long time.”

They were replaced with pleasant surprise.

Jeonghan smiled that smile of his. “About time you say that.”

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol took ten minutes just to step over the threshold—or more exactly, an internal conflict of stepping over the threshold or not took ten minutes to cease. He slipped out of his apartment building and into the cold November night, the sight of cloaked figures strolling down the pavement despite the heavy wind welcoming him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. He began to walk.

He didn’t know where.

But he knew himself well, and his feet took him twenty-one blocks from his place, to a street he knew like the back of his hand. By the time he stopped walking, he was in front of a fancy townhouse, his legs aching and his teeth chattering.

The lights on the third floor were still on.

Jeonghan was standing with his back facing the window, his blonde hair cascading down below his shoulder blades. He spun to the side, revealing the profile Seungcheol knew all too well. His squinting eyes, his pointy nose, his rosy cheeks, his chapped lips…

Seungcheol swallowed.

There was no point of being here and tormenting himself.

Or, when he spotted an brown-haired man waltzing in and embracing his (ex) best friend and lover on the third floor window, the point was of him gathering motivation.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol didn’t know where it all went wrong.

It was all smiles and hugs and kisses. Perhaps a few mix tapes along the way, comprised of jazz songs that Jeonghan loved. A couple of James Bond movie marathon, from Sean Connery to Daniel Craig, through _From Russia with Love_ and _On Her Majesty’s Secret Service_ , cuddling on the battered couch underneath the covers.

Then it all wasn’t.

Soon it was all tears and fights and slaps and heated arguments, the next day developing into something darker and more distraught than the last. All Seungcheol had wanted was to avoid it all—to hide and never be found.

He spent nights after college classes at the bar across the street, or burying his nose deep in the library books, or visiting his cousin’s house nearby. He returned only well after midnight, when his phone notifications were filled with dozens of missed calls from Jeonghan, when the sitting room was a hot-mess havoc after being the object of Jeonghan’s wreak, when Jeonghan was in tired slumber, hot tears half-drying on red cheeks.

The break-up was imminent and foretold and when it happened a few hours after their college graduation, Seungcheol thought he would feel ease at last.

He didn’t.

He felt numb.

So he did what he did best.

He hid.

He didn’t want to be found.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to be sought.

Jeonghan never did.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol didn’t waste more time.

He walked and panted and sighed and reached the bridge.

The river was gleaming, the shining moonlight bouncing off of its black, flowing surface. He propped his arms on the rusty railing, fighting the tears and choking on breath.

The cold was merciless and it ruined his entire body, but he didn’t care.

Time ticked by. He didn’t know how long.

“What are you doing here?”

Seungcheol turned his head to the source of sound.

Jeonghan had a thick coat donned on, along with a scarf and a pair of gloves. His long hair was tied into a ponytail, and his then-rosy cheeks were quickly draining from color. He clasped his hands together, blowing some air into them, as if the gloves weren’t enough, which maybe weren’t.

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol answered truthfully.

“I saw you from the window.” His tone dripped with despise and accusation. “What do you want?”

 _You._ “Nothing.”

Jeonghan raised a curious brow. He knew him better than anyone—an advantage and disadvantage. “ _You_ broke up with _me_ , Seungcheol. I hope you haven’t forgotten about that.”

 _Did I?_ “I haven’t.”

“I didn’t tell Jisoo about this. You better keep your distance.”

Seungcheol scoffed. “I don’t care about your damned boyfriend. And this is the first time I’ve been out of my place since…”

He searched for the words, but they were shy and reluctant.

“Since what? Since our _break up_?” Jeonghan stared at him disbelievingly, and the way he emitted his chuckles were menacing. “That was five months ago! Honestly, Seungcheol, what kind of a miserable, fucked-up guy have you become now?”

Seungcheol’s blood boiled. “Miserable? Fucked up? Oh, maybe just a guy who’s still in love with you.”

His words cut Jeonghan like a knife, and it felt immensely satisfying to have inflicted such pain to someone else instead of himself, for a change.

 _“Still in love with me?”_ Jeonghan raised his voice. He stepped closer towards him, and for a moment, for a split second, Seungcheol thought Jeonghan had forgiven him and they were going to kiss and he would have the pleasure to kick Jisoo out of the townhouse _he_ had owned.

Jeonghan didn’t.

Instead, he lifted his sleeve and revealed a long, pink scar on the inside of his left arm.

“You did this to me. You did this to me, Seungcheol. On our anniversary. You fucking grabbed a knife from the kitchen and sliced my arm with it.”

His head began to throb unpleasantly. “I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan shook his head, incredulous, his eyes boring into Seungcheol in a dangerous glare. “You’re sorry? Tell that to my worried-sick parents. Tell that to angry Jisoo back at the townhouse.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” he gritted his teeth in effort not to scream. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry. I’ve thought about this—us—for a while. If we could just go back to where we—”

 _“Go back?”_ Jeonghan cut off. “Do you think that after what had happened, I still trust you?”

The words rushed out of his mouth, true and unstoppable. “I know you don’t. I know. But I’m a different man now—”

“So you’re different now? After being holed up in fuck-knows-where for the last five months? What made you a different man, Choi Seungcheol? What made you less than the coward you were?”

Seungcheol’s fingers found their way around Jeonghan’s wrist, gripping it tightly. “I’m _not_ a coward.”

“A coward would’ve avoided the struggle and come back home after it was well asleep after hours of angry-crying,” Jeonghan hissed, “which was exactly what you did.”

“I was _struggling_ with myself,” Seungcheol remarked blatantly. “But it’s over. It’s over, Jeonghan.” He paused. “Don’t you miss us? Don’t you miss me? Don’t you miss waking up next to each other in the morning? Don’t you miss the days where we would go to a random place in the city and have a Sunday date? Don’t you miss us visiting that comedy club, don’t you miss the jazz mix tapes, don’t you miss the James Bond, don’t you miss the hugs and kisses—”

He let himself revel in the memories, in the happy, loving memories, where he knew best.

Jeonghan was crying.

Jeonghan was crying, and Seungcheol had never been so happy and hurt at the same time. Jeonghan wouldn’t cry if his words hadn’t had effect on him, would he? What did this mean? Was Jeonghan still in love with him? Anything, just anything, a sliver of hope, a red string, a buried wish, anything—

“I missed the memories,” Jeonghan choked as he tried to pull away from Seungcheol’s firm hold. “Not you.”

His heart crumbled.

“Jeonghan, listen, I’d do anything, I just—”

“No.”

It was a tight whisper, and Seungcheol’s fingers automatically loosened.

Jeonghan rubbed his wrist, now decorated with a harsh mark of red, dropping his head and biting his lips and heaving a sigh. Tears were tumbling down his sunken cheeks, staining the collar of his coat.

“Please, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol breathed out.

They lapsed into silence.

Jeonghan finally looked up, his watered eyes black and unreadable.

“Stay hidden, Seungcheol.”

And then he left.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The temperature became colder as the stars glowed brighter, scattered across the dark sky, identical to the river below the concrete bridge, endlessly streaming to a point far away that Seungcheol couldn’t see.

He wondered if the water would hide him well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His tears were plunging down the river in silent drops.

Minutes later, so did he.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their four-year game ended at 12:44 A.M.

Their hearts had been the stake.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I myself was heartbroken when writing this. ;;


End file.
